


maybe i can write you out of me

by schuylerhamilton



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 10:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schuylerhamilton/pseuds/schuylerhamilton
Summary: She wonders if she thought wrong. If all the kisses, hand holds, words, hugs, and moments shared between them weren’t what she thought it was. If every look in his eye was purely acting and nothing more.





	maybe i can write you out of me

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this is. It’s a mess, tbh, but I found it to be very meditative and calming in a sense. A little reflection on what the past nine months have brought me, and a good way to organize my thoughts about this whole situation.
> 
> I’m personally taking everything I’ve heard about Scott and Jackie with a grain of salt. I’m not sure if they’re together, and if they are, well, that’s great for them. I’m definitely not leaving this fandom anytime soon, however. I plan to keep writing fic, even if it might be a little difficult or painful now. I’m still shipping Tessa and Scott, and I hope they get their shit together, however long that may take. Their relationship has brought me some friends and an appreciation for skating, and that is definitely not going away. I’m so very proud of them and their partnership, especially today, since they received their star on the Walk of Fame.
> 
> Please leave kudos or comment if you enjoyed this little one shot. Chapter 3 of fools and kings is currently in development, by the way. I’m not abandoning that.

She remembers that night, long ago, when she stood with her ear pressed to the phone, her finger absentmindedly playing with the chord. She heard his friend’s laughter through the receiver, the muffled giggling and pushing of nine and ten year old boys, the whispers of _“Do it, Scotty,”_ and _“Come on, what are you waiting for?”_. She heard the way his voice hitched when he mumbled _“I’m sorry, Tutu, but I don’t wanna be your boyfriend anymore.”_ She heard the ringing of the dial tone after he hung up, her ear still pressed to the phone.

She remembers when they got older, the way his eyes would fixate on her lips when they got too close during practice or the way he’d almost kiss her at the end of Valse Triste or Umbrellas, his lips just brushing hers as they finished. She remembers when he first saw her after her surgery, the way he mumbled _“I’m sorry,”_ the same way that he’d said it into his phone just a little over ten years earlier. She remembers how delicately he’d touch her during practices, like she was made of glass and would break so easily.

She remembers every time his mouth would come into contact with hers during the Tango Romantica, how he’d whisper to her to _“Just do it.”_ She remembers how softly he would kiss her hand in the beginning of Mahler, and look up at her like she was an angel, the most beautiful girl in the world. His everything.

She remembers how she pressed her lips to his in Carmen, almost begging him to give in and end this obvious barrier between them. She remembers how Marina pleaded with them to add more sexual tension, to take it as far as it could go, to leave the audience begging for more. She remembers the way he hugged her before their free dance in Sochi, like he was trying to meld his body into hers, and the way he breathed in her scent like it was oxygen and he was a dying man.

She remembers Scotland. She remembers the intensity of his stare as they listened to What’s Love Got To Do With It in that cold bar. It scared her, but what scared her more was that she had the nerve to stare at him right back. The image from that night is forever seared into her brain.

She remembers everything. China, the comeback decision, the stress of practices and competitions...

And Pyeongchang.

She remembers the way he cried as he hugged her, the sound of his hiccuped sobs as he whispered words of love into her ear after Moulin Rouge. She remembers every cheek and forehead kiss, the way his hand would hold hers before they took the ice, the way his eyes would search for hers in a crowd. She remembers the pride in his voice as they sang the national anthem, his gold medal glinting in the light.

She remembers Shape of You, Four Minutes, and every other remotely sexual program they’d skated to over the last nine months, and she wonders if she thought wrong.

If all the kisses, hand holds, words, hugs, and moments shared between them weren’t what she thought it was. If every look in his eye was purely acting and nothing more.

She knows he loves her.

But is he in love with her?

_Is he in love with me? Has he been, ever since we started skating together? Ever since that phone call?_

_Is he waiting for me to decide if I’m in love with him too?_

She doesn’t want to make him wait any longer. They’ve waited long enough, she decides.

_I, Tessa Virtue, am in love with Scott Moir._

_I’m not sure if he’s in love with me, though._


End file.
